The Postman is Late Read online

  “I can’t make it. I have to fill in here. We’re short staffed,” Marian said as she checked out a stack of books for a young child. “I’m going to church on Sunday. Do you want me to pick you up?”

  “That would work,” I told her, thumbing through the Woodland View community guide. “I was hoping you could help me with some research on the computer.”

  Marian sighed and said, “Jan, I’ve offered to help you shop for a computer. You should have one at home. It’s not hard to learn. We have classes here.”

  “No, I don't care for it,” I said.

  “Ok, let me get someone to watch the front desk. We can go to the computer room.” Marian found a clerk to take her spot. We went into a small room previously used for meetings and now transformed into a computer room. There were three computer stations available. Marian sat in front of the computer and clicked on some keys. The computer sprang to life. “Jan, this is the browser we use. It’s called Safari. You type your question in the search bar and hit enter. It’s pretty simple. What are you looking for?”

  “I wanted to look up Chicago Premium Construction.” I peered over her shoulder.

  Marian typed in the name of the company. A slick website came up. “That’s what I wanted.” I read the screen. The company was located on the northwest side of Chicago, near Harlem Avenue. “Can we look up who the owner is?” I asked.

  Marian clicked a few tabs and different pages popped up. She read them quickly. “It doesn’t say on their website but we can look at their incorporation papers,” Marian said.

  “How do you do that?”

  “There’s a government website. It’s public information.” She typed a few words in what she had called the search bar. A long list came back. “Jan, it says here they were incorporated in 1956 in Chicago. The president’s name is Michael Stevens, the treasurer was Brad Mitchell. They had twenty employees when they incorporated.”

  “That doesn’t tell me much.”

  “Jan, what are you looking for?” Marian turned around to look at me.

  “I’m looking for the name Benetti.”

  “It says here that Stevens is also a partner with an Alko Limited.”

  “Can you look that up?”

  Marian typed it in and a long list of files or links as Marian called them came up. “It says they’re listed under livery service. They were incorporated the same year, 1956. Their president is listed as Joseph Benetti.”

  “Interesting,” I said, sitting back in the chair away from the glare of the computer. “That’s what I was looking for. Thanks, Marian.”

  Marian turned to me again and asked, “Are you sure you’re okay, Jan? I know you put on a brave face at book club.”

  She was sweet to be concerned about me. “No, really, Marian, I’m fine.” I paused and thought for a moment. “Marian, we’ve been talking about doing a talent show for the National Night Out this year. I know in the past the library has helped by supplying movies. We’re not going to do movies this year. Maybe you can help James with the show. We’re going to hold auditions over the next few weeks.”

  Marian’s eyes lit up when I mentioned James. “Did James ask me to help?”

  “Not specifically. I know he would be very happy to have your help,” I said.

  “I would love to help anyway I can. The library has a complete collection of karaoke CDs that we rent out. I still have Nick’s karaoke machine. Could they use that?” she asked.

  “That would make things a lot easier. We'll have to get together with James and figure everything out.”

  “I want to show you one more thing on the computer before you go.” Marian switched the computer back on. “I’m sure you’re familiar with Facebook, right?”

  “Yeah, Meg and Valerie I know they’re all on Facebook. They use it to talk to their friends. It’s like a chat room or something.”

  “It’s sort of like that. You can post comments, pictures, videos. You can look for friends online.”

  “Could you look up Chris Benetti on Facebook?” I asked.

  Marian typed in Chris Benetti into what she called the search bar, and a page appeared with pictures of the man I saw last summer. He was wearing swim trunks with a big gold chain, smoking a cigar on a boat.

  “That’s quite a nice boat for a surveyor,” I said.

  Marian scrolled down. “These are called friends.”

  “I know what friends are.”

  “On Facebook, it means they follow you,” Marian said. She clicked on a few faces. I recognized some of the last names. “Jan, I’d like to set up a Facebook page for you. That way when I finally talk you into getting a home computer, you and I can chat.”

  “Marian, we chat all the time. We’re right down the street from each other.” I paused. “I like to see people’s faces when I’m chatting with them.”

  “We’ll work on that. We’ll get you into some computer classes first and talk about it.”

  “Thanks for your help, Marian,” I said, standing up.

  Chapter Ten

  I sat on Valerie’s front porch in the teak rocking chair that my son-in-law Bill had made for me. He was quite the weekend carpenter, the house was full of his projects. It was nice to watch him teach Danny how to build everything from birdhouses to tree houses.

  It was almost ten o’clock and everyone else was getting ready for bed. Around me, I could see lights in the neighboring windows turning off. The Andersons’ 65-inch-TV that hung in their living room was casting a shadowy glow through their picture window. I joked with them that if they played a movie I like, I would sit on the bench in front of their house and watch. That image made me think of the old drive-in movie theaters. They laughed and offered to bring me popcorn.

  As the lights grew dim, the street grew dark. I couldn’t see much. That’s why I complain to the mayor about the lack of streetlights. Nobody else seems to mind but the bad guys hide in the dark. The little sneak thieves that they are. And, that’s what was bothering me. It wasn't just the meeting or Alderman Sabatini. It was something much deeper than that. It had been bothering me all night. I had to find out what Mr. Hiro was hiding in his shed.

  From my vantage point, I could see his house at the end of the block. It is across the street and seven houses down. I would be able to see the white of his panel truck if it was in his driveway but it wasn’t. I went up to my apartment and donned the tool belt that my neighbors gave me at Christmas. I put on the windbreaker that said, “Captain, Neighborhood Watch.” It was a gift at the annual Andersons’ Christmas party. They meant it to be funny in a good-hearted way but I took the responsibility seriously. I grabbed the essentials, my binoculars and a fresh thermos full of Jewel Eight O’Clock Extra Bold coffee and my small notebook and the fountain pen. It was Gino’s fountain pen. It was a very special pen considering the person who gave it to him. That’s a story for another day. I went back to my rocking chair.

  As I sat rocking, it was starting to get cold. I put my hands in the pocket of my windbreaker. I rolled Gino’s pen between my fingers. I thought about the adventures Gino and I shared. He was head maître d’ at the Sabre Room working his way through medical school at the University of Chicago. Being the head maître d’ back in the day gave you a lot of clout. All the stars that came to the shows went through Gino, whether they wanted a special table, special bottle of wine or a special favor. One star that asked Gino for a special favor was Bob Conrad. This was back when he was doing that TV show, Wild, Wild West. He was a handsome man, but could get ugly when he drank. He became fast friends with Gino and invited us out to his home in Bear Valley in California. He gave us airplane tickets to Palm Springs and met us there. I was never one for flying but Gino insisted. Then Bob took us up in his small airplane. Bob was an accomplished pilot. In fact, he started the High Sierra Search and Rescue. He said he was going to fly us the rest of the way in his plane. It was the best way to get to his home. He was drunk, and I was terrified. He stopped the plane three or four times a
long the way at different bars where he drank more. The last stop was at a furniture store because he wanted to look at a couch for his house. I thought I was going insane. We finally landed at the small airstrip behind his lodge. I did the sign of the cross, kissed my rosary and thanked the Virgin Mary. It was a beautiful home resembling a big log cabin. The next morning when we woke up, we found a note from Bob saying he went back to Hollywood to the TV set. Gino and I walked around his kitchen. There was nothing to eat. We walked down the mountainside all the way to the little town and a corner coffee shop. That was an interesting time. We sat and drank coffee all day and laughed about it. It actually turned out to be a really good day. The smell of my Jewel Eight O’Clock Extra Bold reminded me of that morning.

  12:30 am. Still no white panel van. I’m glad I grabbed the windbreaker. It was a lovely May night but the woods cool off the street quickly after dark. I could hear the little sneak thieves crawling around the garbage cans on the side of the house. The raccoons weren’t my mission tonight. I don’t know what time I fell asleep but when I woke up it was 2:30 am. I looked through my binoculars. Mr. Hiro’s white van was parked on the slab in his driveway.

  The house was dark. I got up and walked down the street. It really was pitch dark at night. There was just enough moonlight to make my way across the street to the front of Mr. Hiro’s house. There was not a single light on inside or outside the house. Thankfully like most of the original gas post lights on the block, his didn’t work either.

  I stepped carefully and quietly through the evergreens and around to the back of the house. The only sound I heard was the gentle waterfall of the koi pond and the crickets singing in the woods. To get to the shed, I stepped onto the koi bridge. The bridge is only two feet wide without railings. I’m still in pretty good shape for seventy-five years old. I do have to admit that my eyesight has gotten a little worse for the wear. One foot in front of the other I took my time, holding my arms out for balance. From the dark water, I could feel the koi watching me, I hoped they would keep my secret.

  I reached the shed and looked back at the house again. It was still dark. I tested several cedar planks around the door. They were still nailed tight. I wouldn’t be able to move those. I went around to the back. Two of the planks were loose. I pulled on one which popped off, giving me a six-inch window. I grabbed the flashlight from my tool belt and shined it into the darkness. The light hit a pair of eyes that glowed red. I screamed. The little sneak thief jumped out of the shed, knocking me over, carrying something in its mouth. The raccoon took off for the back woods. The porch lights came on and then flood lights lit up the entire back yard. I could see Mr. Hiro running out the back door, grabbing the rake as he ran toward the noise. Towards me.

  I took off into the woods as fast as I could. When I felt I was at a safe distance, I hid behind an evergreen, a hundred yards from the light of Mr. Hiro’s backyard. I could hear him yelling first in English and then in Japanese. Then I heard Mrs. Hiro answering him back in Japanese.

  I stood frozen for what seemed like hours. My feet felt damp and cold in my Keds. The forest smelled moldy. I felt like it was closing in on me. Even after all the lights were off, I stayed hidden. I checked my watch. It was almost 4 a.m. I’d never been in this part of the woods before. There was never a need to. All the years I’ve been on Linden Avenue, I admired their beauty, and their changes over the seasons. The deep red of the black maples, the orange of the oaks in the fall; the crisp white icicles clinging to the branches in the winter; the cheerful yellow of the daffodils in spring; and the violets and meadow flowers in the summer. The woods are a painting come alive. I even liked the deer as long as they kept their distance.

  I heard someone yelling, deep in the woods. My heart pounded. Then I heard it again. I wanted to run away but it sounded like someone needed help. Pulling my flashlight out of my windbreaker, I ran towards the voice. I shined my light on the metal cage that captured Jim Reeney. He was much larger than a raccoon but not much brighter. He stared at me with puppy dog eyes. “I crawled into the cage to change the bait and the door slammed,” he said.

  I couldn’t figure out how even a man as small as Mr. Reeney, physically and mentally, could fit in a cage that size. Apparently he made it work.

  “Can you give me a hand here? The latch is broken,” he said. “I can’t reach my hand through the bars.”

  I took pliers from my tool belt and pried open the latch, releasing the varmint hunter. He stretched his back. I could hear it crack. “How long have you been in there?” I asked.

  “About seven hours,” he said after looking at his watch.

  “Are you okay?”

  “The little beggars took off with the bait.”

  “If you’re fine, I’m going to get going,” I said.

  “Yeah, I hear you. Thanks a lot.” He took his cap off, scratched his head like he was thinking about what to do next and then ran off into the darkness. I stared after him, shaking my head.

  I made my way back to my house. The moon was hanging low, and the sun was starting to rise over the horizon. My son-in-law was exiting the front door. He must be on his way to work. He stopped and watched me appear like a ghost as I climbed over the split rail fence out of the forest preserve onto Linden Avenue. I must have looked quite the apparition. My yellow tool belt, my black neighborhood watch windbreaker, my muddy Keds shoes. I was covered in leaves.

  I stopped to say good morning but Bill stared at me without saying anything. Smiling and shaking his head, he got in his SUV. I watched him drive down the block and onto Spring Oaks.

  I climbed the fifteen long steps to my cozy warm apartment. I walked past the shower and headed to my small bedroom. I was exhausted. I needed rest. I fell onto my Serta Perfect Sleeper and I was out. In an hour my day would start over.

  Chapter Eleven

  With all the recent excitement, I forgot that I promised James I would attend his friend’s art exhibit. It was in the Bucktown area of Chicago. Less than twenty miles from Woodland View, Bucktown couldn’t be more different. Once home to Chicago’s immigrant population, it has now become a haven for artists and those who fancy themselves artists. Now they call them hipsters. In my day, we called them hippies.

  I crammed myself into James’ little British car. He told me it was a classic, an MG racing green Midget. It didn’t matter to me. I still felt my knees hitting my chin. To match the car, he was wearing his “beret” and leather racing gloves. I made him take the ascot off. James always liked to dress for the occasion. Overdress, in my opinion.

  He put the top down. I wrapped my scarf around my hair. I was going to look a mess. We drove down North Avenue, the Chicago skyline lurking in the distance. It was early evening.

  “I think you’re going to like Angela,” James said. “I met her when I was teaching a class on American popular nonfiction. I assigned my students the book the Devil in the White City.”

  I remembered the title. I wondered if I was supposed to read it for book club but I didn’t want to bring it up. James glanced over at me and knew that I had no clue what book he was talking about.

  “Jan, you didn’t read it, did you?” he asked. “I think you would have found it fascinating. It’s set in Chicago during the 1893 World’s Fair. It intertwines the story of Daniel H. Burnham, the architect for the fair, with the story of Dr. H.H. Holmes. He was the first known serial killer. He was a real monster. He would lure victims to his hotel and then kill them.”

  I didn’t remember any of this story. I couldn’t even picture the book.

  “Angela paints portraits of serial killers. I invited her to talk to my class and show some of her paintings. They’re very raw and disturbing,” James said. “After I met her, I was so intrigued by her point of view that I decided to focus my classes on the depiction of murder in literature.”

  We arrived in Bucktown. The streets were crowded and parking was limited. The area is a mixture of vintage clothing shops, music clubs, street cafes and
warehouses transformed into apartments. What they call vintage, I probably still have hanging in my closet. James drove up and down the street, looking for a parking space. I didn’t understand why people wanted to live in this part of Chicago. It was always packed and there was never parking. The restaurants were overpriced, a cup of coffee could set you back seven dollars. That’s what I paid for a pound of my Jewel coffee. James comes down here a lot, always raving about this new restaurant or a one-of-a-kind craft store. James considers himself a patron of the arts, any art.

  He finally wedged the MG into a space on the street between two large SUVs. They call people who live in Illinois flatlanders because Illinois is as flat as an ironing board. Why people have to drive these large fifty thousand dollar sport utility vehicles is beyond me. There are no mountains to climb.

  We got out of the car. I helped James put up the top. We strolled down the street and stopped in front of Gallerie B. People were gathered in front of the Chicago brick repurposed warehouse. James nodded and waved to several of them. I felt out of place in my white capris, pink t-shirt and Keds. They were all wearing black, black jeans, black dresses, black t-shirts. You would think people who enjoyed art would be a little more colorful.

  We followed the crowd inside. The interior of the warehouse had been renovated with its brick walls exposed and restored embossed tin ceiling. The floor was roughed up oak. I recognized it as being similar to the floor that was in our first apartment on Taylor Street. Hanging by mere silver threads on the walls were paintings. The first painting I came across was John Wayne Gacy dressed as a clown. His face was covered with spiderwebs. James was right it was very disturbing and raw. I couldn’t look away. There was something in his eyes that drew me into the painting. It made me nervous and angry. The next painting was Ted Bundy but he was dressed like a handsome angel. I wasn’t sure what Angela was trying to say. These were bad men that did bad things. I definitely wouldn’t have any of this in my house.